Without hesitation, I grip the chair leg with both blood-slick hands, wielding it like a bat. I swing with everything I’ve got before he can claw at the nail, aiming to drive the spike straight through.The wood cracks across his nose, slamming the nail’s edge with a nauseating jolt.
My hips instinctively move in a celebratory, happy little wiggle right there in the dirt. “Swing, batter, batter. Swing!” I chant at the top of my lungs, a wild, manic laugh bubbling up from my chest.
I manage to drive the wood into his face one more time before the cheap timber completely shatters into splinters against his skull.
Thick, dark blood completely coats the right side of his face, the rusted nail sticking out at a horrific angle from his mangled right eye. His teeth are bared in a desperate, animalistic snarl, hot spittle gathering at the corners of his swelling lips. There’s a fresh, bleed-through bandage wrapped around his left arm where I tore that chunk of flesh out earlier, and raw pieces of skin hang uselessly from his right finger where I bit him.
In this exact moment, he finally looks a hell of a lot more like the toxic monster he is on the inside than any sort of human being he once pretended to be.
But then the blood vessels in his remaining good eye burst, turning his gaze into a solid, terrifying sheet of crimson. Looking at the sheer malice rolling off him, I realize that if I don’t take the microsecond of a chance I have to run right fucking now, I might never live to see my Tomcat again.
And that just won’t do for my schedule.
So, I do exactly what any perfectly sane, well-adjusted girl would do in this scenario.
I proudly flip him a double bird, look him dead in his face to tell him he’s a weak-ass bitch, and take off sprinting toward the exit.
But as the sound of his furious, heavy footsteps echoes right behind me, I realize I should have known better. That's the thing about running from demons. You can be fast. You can be smart. You can stab them and set their house on fire. You can even put a nail in their eye and flip them off and mean every second of it.
But they always, always catch you.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wetearthroughthewarehouse perimeter in minutes, our fury blazing hotter than the fires of hell.
The fool posts just two guards at the front as our bikes roar onto the lot. He must have believed backup would magically appear. Someone forgot whose motherfucking city this really is. Finding them was inevitable.
Damon's mercenaries spring to life the moment we charge, but I leave the chaos to my brothers. My sights are set on the real prize hidden behind concrete. Gunfire cracks through the air as they scramble to hold us back. The rear guards bolt around the corner, plunging headlong into the carnage.
“Still just those two central heat signatures inside the space, Tomcat,” Vortex’s calm voice says in my ear.
A flanking guard swings his gun toward me, but Cyanide drops him with a single shot to the skull. I hit the heavy metal door and find it locked. Just another flimsy barrier between me and my little shadow. Three savage blows from my hammer, and thehandle explodes, letting me wrench the door open and storm inside.
My muscles lock tight the instant I spot two figures grappling on the warehouse floor.
Damon straddles Marigold, his bloodied fist cocked to strike again. He whips his head around as the door crashes open, and I let a savage grin break loose. My woman has already fought like hell. Blood drenches the right side of his face, and a jagged nail juts from his ruined eye.
Marigold seizes the moment his attention falters. Her hands dart across the gritty floor, desperate to snatch up anything she can wield as a weapon.
“Damon, Damon, Damon,” I tsk slowly, strolling into the room with the measured, lethal pace of an apex predator, keeping him distracted for her. “Did you honestly think you could just ride into my city, lay your filthy hands on something that belongs to me, and walk away with your fucking life?”
Marigold’s fingers clamp around a jagged hunk of broken concrete. With a raw, animal scream, she hurls it at Damon’s head, pouring every shred of strength from her battered body into the blow. The impact rattles his skull, buying her just enough time to wrench her hips and claw her way out from under him.
As she rises, her damage hits me like a sledgehammer, shattering the numbness in my chest. Her jacket is missing, her shirt hangs in tatters, and her bra barely clings together. Dark bruises bloom across her skin, and her jeans gape open, button and zipper undone.
A tidal wave of catastrophic rage floods my veins, burning hotter than acid.
This bastard nearly stole something sacred from her. He almost shattered her for a second time.
My lip curls into a savage snarl, the need for vengeance propelling me across the concrete, every step fueled by the marks he left on her skin.
She refuses to relent, trusting I’ll never let him overpower her again. The wild, desperate fire in her eyes says it all. She craves this kill. She needs to be the one to finish him, to reclaim her power. And what kind of man would I be if I denied my queen her victory?
She slams her boot into his ribs again as he flails, trying to shove her away. By the time he staggers to his feet, I am already behind him, my arm wrapped tight around his throat, squeezing off his breath in a merciless chokehold.
I look over at her, my breathing deep and steady. “You’ve done good, little shadow.”
“I’m not fucking finished with him,” she snarls right back at me, her chest heaving, blood dripping from her split lip.